


even to the edge of doom

by InsolitaParvaPuella



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/M, Mentioned My Unit | Byleth, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Restraints
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26756977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsolitaParvaPuella/pseuds/InsolitaParvaPuella
Summary: A mission goes wrong, and Ingrid is forced to survive her captors and keep Ashe alive.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. no avenues for escape

**Author's Note:**

> title brazenly stolen from Shakespeare's "Sonnet 116"
> 
> there will be porn by the end of this! there will also be bad things happening to ashe and ingrid, because i love them and that's what october is for :DDD happy whumptober <3
> 
> today's whumptober theme is waking up restrained. please enjoy!

As soon as she woke up, Ingrid began to take stock of her situation. She’d been flying, she reminded herself. Keeping watch over a group of Empire soldiers that had marched nearer and nearer to Galatea land. Bad weather. Maybe a bolt of thunder. No matter how well-trained, there was no easy way to calm a weather-stirred pegasus. Nights in the stables soothing the animals at Garreg Mach during sudden thunderstorms had taught her that. 

Her entire body hurt. If she had been thrown, she would be dead. She must have landed somehow. What happened next? She tried to sit up, but found her arms pinned painfully behind her back. Captured, most likely, by Empire troops who saw a pegasus and rider in Galatea colours and found reason to assume her the heir. Probably ransomed, then to be sent to Enbarr whether or not her father paid. As a noble with a crest she was much too valuable to kill outright.

She couldn’t remember how she was captured, but given the pain in the side of her head, it was probably violent, and she likely wouldn’t remember anyways. Better to devote her energy to escaping as soon as possible.

She cracked open her eyes.

“Oh, this one’s awake!” said a soldier. Her accent was Adrestian, but rough. Like Dorothea, when she lost her elegant facade in battle. Ingrid held back a groan. Dorothea wouldn’t be here, she told herself. None of her classmates would be. Those who joined the Emperor would be high-ranking, as befitting officers trained at the famous Academy. Too highly ranked to be sent to scout the edges of poor territory only holding on to resistance through its neighbours’ aid. 

_This one_ , meaning Ingrid was not the only person captured. Was she captured at the same time as the others? If she was captured alone, then the forces might not be too impressive, but she had no way of knowing. And how was it that there were multiple captured people, if she was one of the first to wake up? What had the soldiers done to knock out a group of people?

A boot stomped into her line of sight, and then something took hold of her braid. She’d pinned it into a roll before she left home, but at some point it must have fallen free of its pins. Her braid was jerked up, and Ingrid held back a pained yelp as she was lifted. She struggled to get her legs under her, her thick flying leggings scraping against the dust and pebbles below. Finally, she got onto her knees, and the pulling stopped.

The soldier who pulled her hair bent down, taking Ingrid’s face in her hands and forcing her to look up.

“Those are the Galatea colours, alright. Looks like they’re too poor for food, but somehow could afford a spy.”

Ingrid wanted to shout back that it was patriotic love, not money, driving her to act. But if she spoke, she might give away her accent. The noble and common people of Faerghus spoke slightly differently, and it seemed they hadn’t put together her noble status yet. Best not to offer them any more clues.

“Well, gonna talk, spy?” the soldier pressed. A droplet of spittle hit Ingrid’s cheek. “Spies are always a trove of information. You can talk now, or we can send you back to the capital. I hear the interrogators there are geniuses at getting Faerghus loyalists to talk.”

Ingrid kept her lips tightly shut. She thought of the Professor, and how she’d been like a stone. No words spent if she didn’t think there was a reason to speak. It had taken months of Ingrid studying the Professor and the Professor opening up before she felt comfortable assuming how she was feeling. Taking in a silent breath, Ingrid called to the Professor for help.

A cool serenity washed through her, even as the soldier shoved her face to the side and kicked her in the gut. It hurt, and Ingrid sucked in air through her teeth as she tamped down on her urge to yelp. The soldier hadn’t used her full strength, so whatever was coming later would be worse. 

“Mal, don’t burst the spy’s guts. We want her alive.”

“It was nothing. Look, she’s fine.”

Ingrid looked at the soldiers and nearly shot them a seering glare. But the Professor had remained cool no matter the circumstances, and so she would do the same. The soldier who first noticed her awakening went back to her seat, watching over the space with a crossbow resting against a chair leg. This was the best moment she’d find to get a lay of the land.

There were tents behind the soldier, and Ingrid could see fire light past them. So this was some kind of camp, likely one meant to stand for at least a few days. She couldn’t be sure how long it had been standing, but if the reports she’s heard were correct, they had likely only just arrived, or been here a day. She could hear voices and their Adrestian burr, but she couldn’t pick out much in the way of words from this distance.

To her left was a recently-trampled path around the backs of the tents, probably leading to the centre of the camp. To the right were bodies, or at least the silhouettes of bodies. Less than a dozen, likely a local militia that got too ambitious in their defences. These would be the prisoners, possibly ransomed to squeeze food and money from the farms and villages, or pressed for information. There was no path past the unconscious people, only a bluff of trees.

Glancing back, Ingrid saw more trees, but the earth was higher here. It dropped off abruptly, leaving a face of exposed earth and roots. If Ingrid were standing, it would be a waist-high ledge, but an unstable one owing to the loose dirt. Something that would slow her down enough that the soldier would be able to fire her crossbow, at least. So she had no immediately obvious avenues for escape. Fine.

The Professor had made it a point, over and over again, that rushing into danger was a game for the suicidal. Ingrid had no such urges. She could wait for as long as was necessary.

Ingrid tested the bonds holding her arms behind her back. Metal, and not particularly fancy ones, she would guess. Only a simple lock she couldn’t out-strength between her and freedom. She adjusted her position, so she was no longer on her knees. She had the tools necessary for an escape. Once the moment arrived, she would make her move. 


	2. waiting was no longer an option

Ingrid fell asleep in tiny increments during the night and morning. At some point a new soldier (she overheard him being called Cyrus) took over the guard post. He and a second soldier had each prisoner stand, relieve themselves in a private corner, stretch, and then drink a cup of water and swallow down a bowl of porridge. Enough to keep them all alive for the moment. Cyrus kept the crossbow in hand the entire time, the threat obvious.

Ingrid’s fellow captives were all poor farmers and labourers, from the looks of it. Her guess about them being a local militia was right. She wasn’t sure why they were being kept alive when that had to be a strain on resources, but she was grateful. She might be able to save them.

When it was her turn, the soldiers went from bored to hostile.

“This one’s the spy, the one who gave us so much shit to deal with,” Cyrus told his partner. “Still hasn’t said a word, according to Mal.”

“The bitch thinks she’s got it under control, I bet. Like the other spies did.”

Be like the Professor, Ingrid told herself. Cold, smooth stone; impenetrable, inscrutable.

When she was let out of her shackles, she did a few deep stretches despite the pain. When the soldiers handed her the bowl of porridge, she ate it quickly and cleanly. It was bland and pasty, her stomach turned as she ate. But she wasn’t going to starve herself and risk weakness when the time came. 

“You get water when you give us your name,” one of the soldiers said, pouring out the cup before her eyes. The porridge stuck to the inside of her mouth even as she was bound up again, the crossbow aimed at her gut the whole time.

The worst part of being held captive was the monotony. Any attempt by any of the captives to speak was met with screaming and threats. There was nothing for Ingrid to do but occasionally adjust how she sat, to keep her legs from hurting. That, and get lost in her thoughts.

She could only protect herself with complete silence for so long before the soldiers tried to beat a confession from her, or took her away from Faerghus and to Adrestians skilled at making prisoners talk. She could try lying, although she would have to attempt to disguise her accent. Or she could offer only her first name. There were dozens of Ingrids her age and slightly younger, just as Dimitri was a common name in Fhirdiad and there was a year or two where many Gautier boys were called Miklan.

But that was a risk. If she lied and was caught, that could raise suspicion about why she needed to obscure her name. If she told the truth and the soldiers didn’t know about the trend of common children to take their names from the nobility, they would correctly conclude she was a valuable prisoner. As long as her value was unknown, she could hopefully draw out her stay in this camp.

Her stomach growled. She wasn’t used to being this hungry and thirsty. But night had fallen, so there might be a dinner served soon.

An officer came around to the back of the camp. Someone with a little breeding, from the way she carried herself, but Ingrid didn’t recognise her—thank the Goddess. She pointed to one of the prisoners, seemingly at random.

“Where is your little band’s leader?” she shouted. None of them spoke. Cyrus took the prisoner the officer had pointed to and jerked him to standing. Then, in a flash—

Ingrid closed her eyes, instinctively, but she still nearly threw up at the sound of the man drowning in his own blood. The other prisoners were shouting, but only in protest. 

“I’ll kill you, one by one, until someone tells me. And if one of you tells me everything I need to know, you’ll go free, with a reward. Enough money to buy more land, and put your children in good shoes.” There was a sickening thud. Ingrid opened her eyes. There was so much blood, but the prisoners were staying quiet.

“Fine, no food or water tonight. Anyone who soils themselves will get ten lashes in the morning. I hope that puts you in a talkative mood,” the officer said, leaving without another word. Cyrus took his seat. No one moved the corpse.

Waiting was no longer an option. If Ingrid wanted to save these prisoners, she would have to risk it all in the morning, when she was finally unbound again.

There was a soft _thwip_ , and then Cyrus groaned. He collapsed, an arrow snapping under him as he fell. For a moment, she held her breath, but heard nothing from the Adrestian camp. Ingrid hadn’t expected anyone to come to the rescue, but that had to be what was happening. Perhaps the militia leader had gathered more volunteers for a rescue mission.

She kept silent, the rumbles of hunger the only sound she couldn’t prevent. She could hear whisper-soft footsteps, but only one set. Whoever this assassin was, they seemed to be alone. In the dark, Ingrid strained her eyes, hoping to see whoever was approaching. They dropped off the short earth ledge, landing quietly among the prisoners. They were dressed in dark blues, perfect for hiding in the night.

Ingrid couldn’t make out the details of what was happening due to the darkness and the distance between her and the other prisoners. But one of them stood unsteadily, and she could see their arms free of shackles. The prisoner climbed up the ledge and escaped into the night, their saviour already at work opening another set of shackles.

The prisoners escaped, one by one, until it was only Ingrid and the assassin. They took a step towards her. Behind her, there was the sound of boot crunching on the dirt. Another soldier was coming.

“Go!” she said, using only her breath to speak. The assassin didn’t, taking her arm and helping her to her feet. They hopped onto the ledge, helping to pull her up.

“Stop!” screamed the soldier. Frantic footsteps. Ingrid clambered, her feet scraping at the loose dirt and searching for purchase. Something like a whip-crack sounded. The assassin screamed.

The soldier had fired the crossbow, and was storming to them. In a second, Ingrid was thrown to the ground, and the soldier tossed the assassin next to her. She struggled to get up, at least kneeling, but the soldier wasn’t paying her much mind. He gripped the assassin’s shirtfront and heaved them up to their knees. Ingrid saw an arrow shaft jutting out of their calf, blood soaking into their dark clothing.

“For a territory that can’t feed itself, Galatea is sure eager to hire spies,” the soldier said, pulling off the scarf that covered the assassin’s face. Even in the darkness, Ingrid recognised Ashe’s face immediately. He was sucking in breath between his teeth, his face distorted in pain and anger. All at once, her heart soared and then crashed. Whether they knew it or not, the Adrestians had captured two heirs to Faerghus territory in two days. 

Ashe looked at her for only a second, and she saw him recognise her in turn. She thought of the Professor’s cool indifference, and summoned it. It could only be worse if the Adrestians knew Ashe was her friend.


	3. she just needed more air

The soldiers ensured Ashe was restrained before they removed the arrow from his leg and bandaged it. One fed him watered-down vulnerary, so he wouldn’t bleed out during the night. They took his bow and arrows away, one soldier taking them away to be turned into more weapons for the Empire. Ingrid watched this all, only barely keeping her mask of indifference in place. 

During their time at school Ingrid had seen Ashe wounded and spent hours sitting at his bedside reading to him to pass the time. He’d promised to return the favour, then ensured she would never need extended bedrest by sniping any archer attempting to shoot her from the sky. Those days seemed impossibly distant, now. But something remained the same; seeing Ashe in pain was intolerable.

Ingrid looked up at the heavens, trying to block the sounds of Ashe’s pained breathing from her ears for a moment. An officer was almost certainly on the way to interrogate Ashe while he was still incapacitated by pain and blood loss. She glanced over to the soldiers guarding them; they were facing her direction but not paying her much attention.

She turned to Ashe. Their eyes met. She wanted to say a lot of things: warnings to hide their identities and relationship from the soldiers; apologies for getting him caught up in this mess; questions about what happened after he left House Rowe; a plea to escape while she distracted the soldiers. She couldn’t say a word without alerting the soldiers, so she restricted herself to a shallow nod. Ashe did the same and she peeled her gaze away. Showing excessive interest in Ashe would be a sure-fire way to reveal their connection.

“The Dukedom nobles were clear, though: Galatea’s too poor to afford to hire spies.” Ingrid turned her face skyward, listening to the conversation.

“Maybe they’re not in it for coin. We could have patriots on our hands.”

“You don’t get to be that good a shot, or a pegasus rider, without money. If Galatea’s not paying, someone else is covering their costs.”

“Fraldarius and Gautier are already funding rebel groups. Wouldn’t surprise me if the dirt-pushers out here got paid to put up a fight.”

“You think they might be part of the resistance? Either of these two could be leading the group.”

“Too young to be leaders. Too young to be this good at fighting, come to think of it.”

“Doesn’t Faerghus start them young? Teach their kids the sword before they learn to write?”

“ _Fucking Faerghus_ , you can tell what they value. No need for culture or knowledge when you can just put swords in the hands of children.”

“Enough wasting time! If you can talk, you can get back to work!” It was the same officer who’d ordered one of the prisoner’s throat slit only a few hours before. The soldiers scattered with replies of “yes, captain!”, one woman taking the usual guard seat. The officer strode to Ingrid, her face hard.

“We know you’re a graduate of Garreg Mach. We’re sending word to the Emperor to make room under the palace for another classmate. You can talk now or later, but you should know: the interrogators at Enbarr are a lot less friendly than me.” Ingrid’s heart dropped. If she was taken over the border, she would be out of reach of any rescue short of an invasion, something impossible with the Faerghus under the boot of Adrestian allies.

She kept her mouth closed. If the accusation was just “Garreg Mach graduate”, then they didn’t know exactly who she was. Maybe they didn’t even know how recently she’d left. Or did the threat to tell the Emperor about a classmate mean they already knew she was from the last batch of students? If that was the case, then they might be able to guess her identity anyways. Ingrid hated this. 

The officer took hold of her braid and pulled Ingrid up, too high to be able to kneel. She scrambled to her feet, unable to keep her cry of pain in. With her hands locked behind her and unable to curl up, she was defenseless as the officer punched her in the stomach. If her stomach wasn’t empty, Ingrid might have thrown up. Pain rattled through her whole body. She couldn’t have stopped the horrible groan from her gut if she tried.

She tried to go limp, but the officer pulled up her braid once again, jerking it hard. Ingrid’s neck ached from the abuse, and her entire scalp burned. If she made it home, she would chop it all off.

“Talk. Who paid for your work?”

Ingrid heaved for breath, but said nothing. There was a sliver of a chance they thought she was just some Faerghus girl with the good fortune to attend Garreg Mach, and she held to it for dear life.

Another punch, this one just below her ribs. Her whole body ached from the hit. She was definitely about to throw up. Then, after only a second, she was hit but the horrifying realisation that she wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t breathe. Ingrid tried to pull away, to find her breath. Her lungs burned. Her vision was blurry, and darkness lingered at the corner of her eyes. She was about to faint and die.

Dizziness overtook her and she crumpled to the ground the moment the officer loosened her grip on her braid. She could see Ashe’s silhouette. His pale face was a blurry circle, but she knew he was watching her.

Her throat closed, darkness closing in. Then, suddenly, her lungs opened again. She gasped in air with such desperation she felt dirt at the back of her throat. She coughed, hacking up dirt and mucus. Ingrid couldn't focus, she just needed more air. She took deep, needy breaths so fast her head momentarily spun. 

A sharp burst of pain cut through the fog as she was hoisted up by the braid once again. She could just about get her footing.

"Please, _stop_!"

Ingrid felt relief and regret in equal measure. The officer let her go again. Ingrid fought through her dizziness, trying to focus as she fell back to her knees. Ashe sounded nearly tearful. She turned to look and only saw blurry, waterlogged shapes.

"Why should I stop?" the officer asked.

"She's not the leader of the local rebels. I am."


End file.
